


Shock

by Jupitersjoggingjeans



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Hurt John Watson, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Not Britpicked, Paternal Lestrade, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 13:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14770901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupitersjoggingjeans/pseuds/Jupitersjoggingjeans
Summary: Sherlock reacts to the news that John has been hit by a car.





	Shock

Sherlock couldn’t see.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Rather, all he could see was bright splotches of light blocking his vision, no matter where he looked. 

He blinked. 

His sight didn’t improve. There was little change and the weird patches of brightness remained, still preventing him from viewing his surroundings.

And now that he noticed one of his senses was faulty, Sherlock also realised that he couldn’t hear. His ears were filled with an odd ringing noise, not unlike the static from a CRT television. 

He shook his head, as if attempting to remove the sound like one removes water from their ears. However, like with his eyesight, it didn’t clear up from the simple action.

The rest of his body felt numb. He could barely, if at all, feel any sensations from his mechanoreceptors **.** It was as if someone had programmed his senses to stop functioning. He almost felt like he was floating, like a lone kite in the sky. 

Had he been _drugged_?

That was improbable. Sherlock had been clean for months, and didn’t remember being on a case, or in any other situation, that could have resulted in such danger. In fact, the last thing he could recall was that John had gone out to buy milk. The image of John yelling, red in the face, filled his mind. He had caused quite a disturbance as he shouted about Sherlock always using up all the milk, in ways that milk was not even supposed to be used, and then refusing to replenish the supplies, which meant that John, yet again, had to trek to the store to purchase more. Sherlock watched his mind’s replay of John’s animated rage with an inkling of humour. His flat mate had thrown his arms up in the air, and made various forceful and rude gestures with his hands, before storming out of the flat, causing the windows to rattle with the force of which the door was slammed shut.

While flipping through these memories, an overwhelming flash of pain suddenly streaked through Sherlock’s chest, leaving him breathless. Taken by surprise, he collapsed onto one knee. The bony joint collided with a hard surface, which caused another throbbing ache to radiate through his body.

The intensity and suddenness of the two jolts of pain **,** in such rapid succession, knocked Sherlock of out his listless daze. His senses started to come back, as if the impact had been a reboot button for his brain. The sunny spots were finally fading from his eyes and the noise in his ears became less muffled.

Taking in his surroundings, Sherlock found he was still in his flat at 221B. His hunched position meant that the only thing in his direct line of sight was the old wooden floorboards, yet he couldn’t find the energy to move. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed, and his nose wrinkled slightly, as his brain sluggishly tried to recall how and why he had ended up on the floor, in his living room. Something must have happened for his brain to suddenly be turned to mush.

His ears finally managed to do something productive, and snippets of sound filtered their way into existence.

“Calm down… Help… Have to breathe…”

It was a familiar voice, but the swarm of buzzing bees currently occupying his skull couldn’t quite place it.

“Sherlock? _Sherlock_?”

 _Ah, a different voice,_ Sherlock mused, still frozen in place.

Hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him gently. He gave no reply. The hands returned and he felt himself being maneuvered onto the sofa. Two light-coloured blobs covered his vision. _Not this again!_

He blinked hard.

This time, the action did do something. The two ovals started to form features, as Sherlock’s eyes focussed and adjusted. Two faces. Mycroft and Lestrade.

What were they doing in his flat? He surely wouldn’t have invited _Mycroft_ over, and it would’ve been too coincidental for Lestrade to arrive at the same time that Mycroft was around. Besides, the universe was rarely so lazy as to allow such coincidences to occur.

Voices. Moving mouths. They would explain the source of all the indistinct words drifting into his ears. It was rather odd that Sherlock could barely hear them though. He thought he only had Mrs Hudson on semi-permanent mute.

Another blink.

“ _Sherlock!_ Can you look at me?”

It took an astounding amount of energy to force his eyeballs in the direction of his brother.

The sound of a relieved sigh. Quieter murmuring filled the room, as opposed to the loud voices of before. A set of footsteps left towards the kitchen. Hands on his face.

He blinked again, realising Lestrade was crouched in front of him. Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement. 

Lestrade let out a slow breath. 

“Hey, Sherlock. You went into a bit of shock just now. But things are going to be okay,” His voice was hesitant, almost shaky. The hands moved to his arms, rubbing them, as a gesture of comfort.

 _Shock? Why?_ Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion. People don’t just randomly go into shock and summon two of the closest people in their lives out of thin air to appear in their flat.

Sherlock cleared his throat before stammering, “I don’t remember you telling me about a case. And why is _Mycroft_ here?” His voice came out unexpectedly croaky and weak.

Speak of the devil, Mycroft exited the kitchen at that moment, carrying a tray bearing three mugs of steaming tea. He offered a mug towards Sherlock. Sherlock reached out, intending to accept the beverage, but paused as he took in the trembling of his outstretched hands. _Probably due to the shock. But, again, why had I been in shock?_ His mind, which was running at about 20% of its usual speed, went round in circles. What had happened to cause him to react so severely? 

The mugs were placed now on the table. Mycroft was sat opposite him, having drawn the chair from under the table. Lestrade was sat beside him on the sofa. It was strange that he hadn’t noticed them move. And his hearing had gone funny again.

Putting all his effort into tuning in, he managed to catch the last few words that his brother spoke, “- worried about Dr Watson.”

Dr Watson. 

John _._

_John._

Warmth trickled down his cheeks. His chest tightened, like a tourniquet around an arm. He could hear blood rushing through his ears. Arms enveloped his thin, shaking frame. Memories came back at a speed faster than that of light.

John had gotten hit by a car. That’s why Lestrade and Mycroft were here. It’d been a hit and run. John had been making his way back to the flat, after buying their milk.

And it was _all his fault_.

It was _his fault_ that the milk had run out. It was _his fault_ that he didn’t buy more milk. It was _his fault_ that he didn’t offer to buy the milk, even as John had shouted at him. It was _his fault_ that he didn’t stop John from going. It was _his fault_ that he didn’t offer to go with him. It was _his fault_ that he’d made so many enemies, as his career as a consulting detective. It was _his fault_ that he didn’t protect John well enough from those enemies.

If he had been less of a cock, John wouldn’t be in hospital, right at that moment, fighting for his life!

“Brother mine, I know you well enough to know that you are currently blaming yourself,” Mycroft’s steady voice interjected his self-loathing, “There was no way you could have known, or prevented the accident from happening. I’ve already had my people check and it was _not_ a targeted attack. The driver was drunk. Don’t worry yourself, Sherlock, I will make sure he _never_ drinks and drives again.”

Sobs wracked through Sherlock’s body, and he was grateful for the sturdy arms, which supported his trembling figure. Subconsciously, he leaned into the warmth, seeking the comfort of the person embracing him.

“Sherlock, John’s at Bart’s right now. Do you want to go see him?” Lestrade’s gruff voice asked.

Warm, rough hands brushed the endless river of tears from his face. Sherlock moved his head minutely, giving the slightest nod.

“It’s going to be okay, Sherlock.”

“I just want John to be okay,” Sherlock whispered in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, that was the first fanfiction I've ever written. I hope you enjoyed it. Also, if I need to change any warnings or tags or add any, tell me because I'm still not sure about the specificities of them.


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